i don’t want this life I don’t want to grow up I don’t want to be like everybody else why can’t I just die without people making a big deal out of it
i have friends. we do not talk. i have a sister. and i will always love her.
i never had a father (nor a dad). my mother is a memory. i do not have a teacher or a neighbor or a mentor. i have no god. no faith.
i have my skin (or do i)
i have shrubs and trees, petals and leaves. i have bluebirds and bumblebees.
the sun and the water provide me with my two closest friends - my shadow and my reflection.
love is lost on me.
four letters long and four letters wide
a name that no longer contains a face.
etched over and over in candles coloured crimson. curled in the corners and margins of my books. recited on rosary.
in wet cement these letters should set.
in knowing your name,
i have forgotten a face in favour of a feeling. a fluid. a headspin.
in memorising your name,
it seems as i have forgotten my own.
i hate my body i want to get a knife and slice it along my spine so it opens up like a zipper and just let my organs and bones and blood spill out and breathe
please dont ask me how am unless you want to see me cry
i am so utterly disgusted with myself
with my body
the thought of someone touching me
touching this
touching this body
makes my spine curdle
and my muscles contract.
to feel the fat. my thighs. my calves. my stomach.
to feel the bones. my ribs. my wrists. my hips.
i do not smell of dandelions.
i am hair. i am grease. oil. grime.
i am the dirt under my splintered nails.
i am my yellow teeth that haven’t been brushed in a week.
i am bruised and blemished. burnt and braised.
i wear the scars of razors and of cigarettes.
i am inked in poor decisions and past selves.
if they saw me they would run. scream. cry. collapse.
i am dirty. i am an odor. i am full.
i feel like a pendulum, as i oscillate between
relapse
and recovery.
and i wonder, is this my purpose? travelling through a spiralling road that is never really going up
or down?
for weeks, i trudge up the hill, and i am left battered and bruised. but i am unbothered, for the sun smiles at me.
blinded by its light, i trip on a dent in the road. and scrape my knee.
and i recall, how heavenly the sun feels on my skin
down below.
monday evening comes and i go to the pictures.
i find comfort in its routine.
the couples talk through the ads, and cuddle through the film.
the moths dance the tango in the light of the projection.
and i sit alone. sometimes i doze. often i cry. but i do not mind. for at least i am not home.
i place a seashell upon my ear whilst i sleep
in hopes that in my dreams, i can finally return home
there is only breathing,
burping,
beating,
blood,
bile,
and bones.
our bodily fluids control our destiny,
and our death.
sticky pleasures
sweet guilt
sleep and sweat
lay with me
asleep with me
share the fruit
makes me smile